thehouseofvanserra

[thehouseofvanserra]

Friend or Foe

Summary - After coming to a summons for tea, Lucien is faced with an unknown factor: you.

Warnings - mentions of poisoning, mentions of planned assassination, canon Beron behavior

A/n- Something less spicy and short for @thehouseofvanserra before we dive into 2 smut fics. One featuring everyone's favorite bad dad, one featuring our favorite crackship and reader

Lucien stared at you. You at him. Neither of you spoke as you held the Lady Autumn's tea she had requested. You had thought it was odd she requested three cups, but now you knew why.

One for the Heir. One for herself. One for her wayward son.

“Your name,” he finally spoke. He was regaining confidence, no doubt. How couldn't he? He was the son of a High Lord, and you were just a lady in waiting.

“Y/n,” confidence. Confidence was key in dealing with the Vanserra Family. “And you are not supposed to be here.”

He visibly flinched and sighed. “I was invited.” The 7th in line sat, ankle crossing his knee as he studied you. “The real issue is deciding what to do with you.”

Your laughter made him raise his brows. You weren't afraid, a positive sign, but an odd one. He studied you as you set the table. You were clearly high fae. Wealthy, judging by the clothing you wore. With Beron having only sons, the daughters of his closest advisors were used throughout the Forest House to be taught “palace life.” Trained and groomed into believing they wanted to be married off to older males with a questionable reputation for Beron's benefit. But if you had been assigned to his mother, there was something special about you.

“Who is your father?”

You glanced at Lucien as you continued setting up the finger snacks. With a heavy sigh, you answered, “Faegan.” Lucien nodded, knowing the name all too well. Your father had his hand in Beron's financing. The two of them were close. Almost brothers. Your father was as horrible as his.

The door opened, his mother entering with Eris. They both paused when they saw you. “Typically,” you drew out, “When fae plan a secret meeting, they ensure the Help has the correct time to be set up by.” You held up your note to Eris. The one where he specifically asked you to set up tea and snacks for 3 for his mother at her request. “You told me by 9pm. It's only 8:45.”

The heir gave you a look that indicated to Lucien there was more here than he realized. “Forgive me, y/n Perhaps if your sleeping drought wasn't so potent, father wouldn't have fallen asleep early,” Eris's voice was calm. So calm. You two were friends.

Lucien's brows shot up, “You have friends?”

“Not known ones,” his mother said softly and sat. You were quick to pour her tea and make it exactly as she liked. “How did the House allow you in this time? It keeps changing things on us to keep Beron guessing.”

It was clear to Lucien that you weren't actively listening. The less you knew, the better. The fact that you were aware of that was heartbreaking. You quickly served Lucien and Eris before nodding and walking over to the wall, hand touching a stone. The House opened a door for you. One to allow you to escape this room without someone noticing.

Lucien waited until you left the room to answer. “It made a full portal within the forest of the Mortal Lands for me,” he watched as the door went away fully, glowing and sealing. “You trust her?”

Friend or foe, the House taunted in his head.

“With my life,” Eris was the one who answered. “She doesn't know because Beron suppresses her magic, but she is my mate.”

“He still does that,” Lucien rolled his eyes.

“A powerless female is a helpless one,” His mother stated. “And Beron loves them powerless.” She sipped her tea and hummed. “But, it's allowed her to focus on the herbal side of things. Her teas and tonics are always.. quite effective.”

Lucien and Eris both sipped. Eris's eyes were sad, staying on that wall you'd left through. This was planned. Eris gave you the wrong time on purpose. He wanted Lucien to know about you, to know exactly how Beron's assassination was being planned out.

“So the House is allowing Her to move through as if she is one of us, because she is,” Lucien concluded. “The House has been.. lively lately. It reaches out to me more and more through little signs. A book from my old chambers. A piece of jewelry,” he flexed his hand, looking at the ring that matched one of the many of Eris's hands.

“The House believes it is time,” she concluded. “It has been speaking to Eris more than Beron lately. The forest and trees won't even answer anyone but Eris.”

The heir squared his shoulders, fear and confidence leaking from him, “With the House also supplying y/n with herbs, it may be easier than the 3 of us planned. The sleeping drought was undetectable.”

“But he won't trust her now if she served him whatever it was in,” Lucien stated. As if the House agreed, it opened a vanity drawer and shut it. “Meaning if you are planning on using faebane before declaring a Blood Duel, someone else will need to serve it.”

His mother hummed, reaching for a cucumber sandwich. “Good thing the house always provides whenever we ask. One of Y/n's recipes could land in his lap, an old fashioned mixed with something extra.”

The brothers both glanced at each other, chewing an apple treat. Lucien still couldn't shake that whispered question, though. “Friend or Foe,” the House repeated. “Friend or Foe.”

Lucien shook the question, convincing his mind to trust the judgment made by his mother and brother. “Eris wouldn't risk her,” he told himself mentally. “He wouldn't involve her unless he knew.” He repeated it like a mantra as Eris continued to speak in hushed tones. “Friend,” he answered the House softly. “I trust she is a friend.”

And as if the House agreed, the patio door opened and shut.

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[thehouseofvanserra]

The Binding

Pairing: none | Rating: M | Word Count: 1696

Summary: Eris is now High Lord and the House visits him in his sleep to make a deal.

Content Warnings: Suspense, creepy House, mentions of nudity, magic comes with a price, internalized homophobia, angst

This is for @thehouseofvanserra mini collab. It’s the last day! This was a fun little ride and I hope people enjoyed it.

Master List | Read on AO3

Tagging: @hieragalbatorixdottir @ninthcircleofprythian @mybestfriendmademe @thisblogisaboutabook @secret-third-thing @daycourtofficial @pit-and-the-pen

Eris’s body ached. He’d been awake for two days, running on adrenaline and his new found power as High Lord. He felt it around noon, the beginning of energy decline. He barely had enough motivation to eat something and bathe. When he finally slipped under the covers, his whole body melted into the bed. He closed his eyes and felt himself slip under. 

“Hello, Eris.” 

Eris startled, instantly reaching for the knife under his pillow. It wasn’t there. He turned back and in his room was a male. One he knew well. 

“Azriel?” The male didn’t move. 

He slipped out of bed cautiously. It looked like Azriel, with his broad shoulders and large wings. The leathers had the night blue stones that glowed in the dark. His face was the same, dark hair cut short. But something was off- those hazel eyes looked different, the smirk on his face didn’t fit. Eris realized he didn’t awake from the wards being tripped nor did he smell the cedar that accompanied the male. The fae lights were also on. He had turned them off. 

He was dreaming. But the thing in front of him wasn’t a part of the dream. 

“What are you?” Eris finally spoke. 

“You ask the right question.” Azriel grinned. “You should know me, Eris. I watched you come into this world in the room on the second floor. I watched you grow. I watched you murder your father in the throne room. I am The Forest House.” 

Somehow in this dream it made sense. The house was filled with magic. Over the centuries he’d witnessed things he could not explain. Corridors that didn’t exist on the maps. Rooms that would not be there the next day. Items he needed appeared near him. He’d read about the history of the house as a youngling and knew it was enchanted. What did not make sense was why his home appeared to him in the form of a lesser fae. A male lesser fae he despised.

“Then why do you look like that?” Eris scowled. 

“This?” The House gestured to itself. “I appear as what you prefer. Though, I’ve never appeared as a male before.” Eris felt his face heat. The House as Azriel laughed. “You cannot hide who you are from me, Eris Vanserra. I hold no judgement.”

“What do you want then?” Eris wanted to wake up but couldn’t seem to do it. 

Azriel’s smile grew almost sinister. The massive wings expanded behind him like a devil. “If you wish to live inside these walls, we must come to an agreement. You bind yourself to me, to the land.”

Eris physically recoiled. “As if I am a fool to fall for such trickery.”

“It’s not a trick. I came to your father centuries ago in his dreams. As I did with his father, and the father before. Are you familiar with Spring’s rite?” It tilted its head. “Your ancestor exchanged the yearly rite with this. The Binding.”

Eris frowned. He’d heard that word before. He had read about it in the history of The House. There was never a full detail of what it was. Simply that the High Lord and the land were one, bound by ceremony. Eris assumed it was tied to being High Lord. Something that happened immediately with the transition of power. He thought hard and remembered vaguely a statement of exchange but nothing of what that exchange was. 

“And what exactly is this binding?” He pinched the inside of his arm when he crossed them. Nothing happened. 

“You give me something,” Not-Azriel’s eyes raked over Eris slowly, with the heat of a lover. “And I give you my loyalty.” 

“I don’t have patience for your riddles,” he hissed. It was not lost to him that the vague statement was on purpose.“Speak plainly.” 

“I take a part of your soul.” Its grin didn’t fade. “Your father gave me his heart. Despite what he told himself, killing his entire family didn’t sit well with him. I only took some of it from his soul, despite him offering it all.” 

Eris’s stomach churned. The House as Azriel laughed wickedly.

It added, “You chose what to give me.” 

“A part of my soul is still a part of my soul.” 

There was heavy silence between them. Eris did not want to be here. He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t sign up to sell his soul to a being that lived in the house.

“I don’t live in the house, I am the house.” Eris felt the color drain from his face, fear running down his spine. The house laughed again. “You think too loud, new High Lord.” 

“So what exactly am I supposed to give you?” He snapped in defense. “My heart as well?” 

“I could take your shame,” it said quickly, those surreal hazel eyes widened. It was too quick and eager for Eris’s liking. “The hunger for this Illyrian that sits deep in your bones. It’s not like you want it anyways.”

“And what am I to gain in return, just your promise that I’ll be bound to the land I rule? I can find another way to bind myself to the land.” 

“Magic always has a price, Eris Vanserra. You can look for another way. But you can’t control what it takes from you. I’m offering you a choice. It’s a fair exchange I think. Prosperity of the land, the magic of the house- my magic, in exchange for your silly infatuation for a,” The house paused. “Lesser fae.” 

It felt strange to watch Azriel talk about himself like that. 

“Exactly how do you plan to take it?” 

“Most prefer carnal measures.” With a snap of its fingers, clothes were gone. 

Eris never saw the shadowsinger naked but his imagination seemed to have a solid idea of what he might look like. Heat pooled in his belly as his eyes raked over the naked male before him. His eyes stopped at the cock hanging between Azriel’s legs. It made his mouth water. 

“You like it?” Az whispered. Not Azriel. This was not Azriel, Eris had to remind himself. “I showed you mine, you show me yours.”

Eris shook his head. Something wasn’t right. “You plan to bed me.” 

“You can bed me if you like.” Eris blinked and in horror realized the cock on the fake Azriel was gone. The female’s sex was in its place. He squinted at Eris. “I’m more accustomed to this. But you don’t like it, do you?” 

“No,” Shame rolled through him and he averted his gaze. “Is there not another way to do this?” 

The house sighed and when Eris glanced back over, Azriel’s clothes were on. Azriel started walking towards him and Eris stepped back until the back of his legs hit the bed. Azriel was close to him. No, not Azriel. The House. Eris could feel his hair stand on end. Up close there was something off about the being before him. His jawline wasn’t right. The eyes were too murky. 

And yet he couldn’t move. 

“You aren’t like the other High Lords,” A scarred hand reached up and grabbed his jaw. Azriel’s voice shot lightning through Eris’s body, like the touch entranced him. “I look forward to serving you, Eris.” 

Eris grew weak in the knees, a moan escaping his lips at the sound of his name. Azriel’s sharp teeth flashed at him while the hands holding his chin grew claws. Eris knew he should be afraid, but instead he was filled with want. He wanted this creature. He wanted whatever it would give him. He wanted Azriel. Eris tried to focus but his gaze was blurry. 

Azriel cooed like a lover, “exchange a kiss with me. Give me your want for this fae and I will give you the true power you seek.” 

A whisper in his mind said no, he shouldn’t. 

“Please, Eris?” That sounded just like Azriel. Eris’s eyes were closed. Or were they open and seeing nothing? “If you won’t bed me, let me kiss you. I’ll make it good for you.” 

He felt a hand leave his chin and reach back into his hair. Another ran down his chest. Eris groaned, pleasure shooting down his spine. His eyes opened. There was Azriel, watching him. 

“Just once,” Eris said breathing heavily. 

He could have sworn he saw red eyes gleaming at him instead of hazel. 

Lips pressed against his own, and he pulled Azriel in close. It felt so good- he wanted more. A brush of something- a hand, down his chest. Scarred hands touching his warm skin. That was all he needed. Everything he wanted. He moaned into the mouth kissing him and focused only on the hard pulsing of pleasure he’d never felt before flooding his senses. He didn’t see Azriel pull back and shift into something else, something his mind couldn’t comprehend. Darkness covered his eyes and he felt pressure in his chest, like a hand reaching in. Something inside him snapped loudly. 

Eris woke, panting and looking around in the dark. He felt the cool wetness on his stomach and sleep pants- disgust and shame rolled through him the second he realized what it was. He stared at the ceiling, trying to remember what happened. He had made a deal. A deal with The House. He pondered further, focusing on his body. He felt no different. If anything he felt more rested than he had in years. It was possible it was just a dream and nothing more. He got out of bed and cleaned himself, shoving the dream away from his mind. 

In the Night Court, another male woke up with a start, his scarred hand flying to his chest. He stared at the ceiling, heart pounding. His shadows were deathly silent. He tried to figure out what was wrong and why he awoke. Though his memory was foggy, it felt like something in his chest was now slack. Like a taunt ribbon now cut. After a moment he shrugged it off, and got out of bed. He might as well get ready for his day since he was up. 

[thehouseofvanserra]

What Lies Beneath The Roots

Beron x reader (x the House)

a/n: I actually haven’t really written anything new (idea-wise) since late November/early December so I’m very much out of practice here. Hopefully this isn’t awful because this piece is written for the @thehouseofvanserra collaboration that was very kindly managed by @readychilledwine who has been an absolute wonder in putting this together, so thank you Liz for making it such a lovely experience 🧡💛

summary: Every year, you take the linens tinted with blood and soak them in tepid water. Each night of the week you bleed, you take the water to the foot of a great oak tree, and give back to the earth. But on the last night, when you’re due to say goodbye for another year, the King of the woodland sprites seeks you out to borrow a power he believes to be the product of your ‘enchantments’. 

warnings: oral (f receiving), fingering, themes of discomfort but the actual sexuality is mutually agreed upon, Beron has three tongues and uses all of them

word count: 4,292

——————————————————————————————————————————————

Night has long since fallen, but the pathway is clear, illuminated from the silver glow of the full moon. 

You cradle the glass jar in your arms, swathed in pure cotton, held within the bandages of fabric. Beneath the moon’s pale blue shine the bloody water instead appears simply cloudy, like mead with residual fruit swirling inside. The golden lid’s gleam is dulled as you enter the forest, bare feet stepping through the mossy underbrush, the pale, tattered linen edges of your dress trailing behind, occasionally fluttering in the breeze whenever the woodland decides it needs to breath again. 

The pathway you take is long and winding, but you’ve been taking this pathways for centuries do, and could navigate your way in and out solely off the texture of the ground beneath your feet. Passing by the cluster of pebbles to the right of the path; a gnarled, ragged root brushing against your calf; the particular whisper of wind that’s funnelled through the stream that passes by just north of the path you’re taking. 

A bough groans in the wind, heavy and aching, and a raven’s crow creeks through the air. 

Before you is the Great Oak. 

She’s tremendous. 

Her roots stretch far out beneath the forest floor, roiling like thick waves that have been turned to wood above ground. Her trunk alone is triple the size of your cottage that’s situated at the forest’s edge. A dark hollow looms far above your head, her mouth opened wide to absorb the woodland’s delights; to keep track of everything that happens in her territory; tasting it on the wind. 

You come to a pause just shy of the red-capped mushrooms that spill in a circle around her, spotted with white patches that blister from their heads. 

Taking in a shallow breath, you hold it for a few moments, eyes gliding shut to bask in the presence of the forest. Fresh, pine air; chilled brushes of the wind’s fingers tracing down your shoulders, spooling beneath your skirts. 

You exhale, slowly. Consciously breathing out, squeezing out the old air in your lungs, keeping them as empty as possible as you cross the boundary. 

Magic crackles in the air, zapping softly through your body, the remnants tingling in your mouth and ears. A shiver runs up your mostly bare spine. 

Looking at her now, from within her enchantments, she’s breathtaking. Tiny glow bugs skitter around her branches like they’re bracelets, fireflies swimming through the air and darting behind broad, widely-scalloped leaves. 

A mindless smile curls the edges of your mouth, lips parted in awe even after all these decades. 

If only she would cradle you within her embrace. Allow you to huddle in her lap. 

But only once before have you dared to seek her space, and undoubtedly she would only ever allow it on an equally dark night. 

A night that is not this one. 

Swallowing, you unscrew the jar’s lid, swirling the bloody water around to stir the sediment up from the depths. 

Now you’re getting older, this practice is limited to once a year. Soaking your sanguine linens in a wooden tub of tepid water, leaving them to soak before filtering the water into seven different jars. Tonight is the seventh night, and the last time you’ll see her, until the next year rolls around and your cycle returns again. 

Settling upon the mossy cushion of the forest floor, you loft the jar in your hands, beginning to tilt the glass until the nourished water brims at the lip. The next second the water is flowing, streaming down into the dirt and sinking low to find her roots. Liquid gathers in the moss, pooling on the floor and spreading rapidly before percolating her mossy bed. Occasionally you pause, only to swirl the jar once more, and finally you’re tipping out the last of your watered-down cycle. 

The last, gleaming droplets vanish into the earth, and you’ve given her all you can. 

With a heavy sigh, you turn the jar upside down, allowing whatever liquid is left on the sides of the glass to trickle down over night. You’ll fetch it again next year. 

As painful as your cycle is, you miss it now it’s passed. Miss the feminine magic that courses through your body over those past seven days. Now you’re healed and finished, there is nothing left to give. 

You get to your feet, dirt having dampened the linen covering you knees, but you don’t mind. 

A flash catches your attention, coming from within her hollow. 

You pause, feet having half-turned to leave, but then the glow brightens, filling the mouth with a flaming orange glow, and you can’t look away. 

The light builds, gathering force, power concentrating as the orange shifts from burnt umber, to the purest sunlight, folding in on itself time and time again until your eyes are burning, lashes singed, heat beginning to warm your skin even from this distance. 

That glow shoots down from the hollow, but you can do nothing as it snares your limbs, curling like snakes around your calves, slinking up over your hips, threading through your hair until your encased in that bright, glittering light. 

What on earth is happening? 

All at once the light dissipates, and you’re left trapped in darkness. Warm, soft darkness, but rendered blind nonetheless. 

You struggle, startled as a cool breeze wraps around your bare hips. 

Your clothes—where are your clothes? 

A frenzied flutter, not unlike that of a bee or dragonfly, drawn near, and spots of turquoise and chartreuse pulse in your vision. Then a hand, rough but warm, captures your wrist, and you jolt as you’re pulled from the warmth you had been swathed in. Fingers settle gently atop your eyelids, guiding them closed, and before you know it, the pounding colours are being healed from your vision. The darkness dissipates, and those finger pads remove themselves. 

With a tentative flutter, your lids slide open. 

Now stood before you, is a male you’ve never seen before. His lips are long and narrow, and his eyes simmer beneath thick, furrowed brows that seem to be made of displeasure. Cropped, auburn hair spikes from his head like the miniature spines of a horse chestnut, though they are at their tallest on the crown of his head, shortening in length down the sides. A hollowed cap adorns his skull, and you realised it’s one belonging to an acorn, carved and crafted into what seems to be some kind of crown. Small, furred roots weave through the main structure, a single peace of moss-green sea glass inset at the crown’s peak. 

“Who…are you?” The words somehow part from your lips, though you can’t manage to convince yourself you’d managed to speak through your confusion. 

The dismal displeasure eases in his features, crows feet losing their rigidity, though doesn’t entirely disappear. “I am the King under the Oak,” the male answers, and his palm finds the side of your ribcage, thumb tracing the smooth arc of the bone beneath your skin. “But to you,” he pauses, amber eyes like the rich syrup that leaks from tree bark as they study you with an intensity. His free hand lowers, grasping your palm and raising it between you. “I am Beron,” he answers, lips grazing the skin of your knuckles. 

You can’t place it, but there’s something strange about the way he speaks. As if the very structure of his vocal cords differ to yours in some way. 

Though the gesture is one of respect, his eyes seem hostile, and your brows narrow in wary confusion. 

“The King under the Oak,” you repeat, suspicion clenching your vocal cords. His brow twitches, and he lowers your hand from his mouth. “I am the ruler of this forest,” the King claims, taking a step back as if taking him in whole will soothe your qualms. 

A cape is pinned to his broad shoulders, made from what looks like preserved, autumnal leaves with spongey moss stitched to the underside. His tunic is a chalky red that shimmers as you tilt your head, tiny glimmers of blue and purple held within the fibres. The buttons look to be made of smoothed bark pebbles, while his trousers are a warm chestnut colour, made from a material you can’t discern. 

You incline your head, “I was unaware this forest had a ruler.” 

A muscle in the King’s jaw flickers, and satisfaction twines down your spine, refusing to be intimidated despite his dominating stature. “Do you claim sole ownership of my woodland then, my Lady?” 

“This wood doesn’t belong to anyone, as far as I’m aware,” you retort, shifting in his hold, trying to hold yourself high while wishing to angle your starkly naked body away from him. His hold seems to tighten, as if sensing your sturdy resistance. 

“No?” He questions, subtly stepping closer so you must tilt your head to hold his gaze. “If not the ruler, then this land’s protector?” 

Your brows furrow. “Protector?” 

“It’s you who nourishes my stronghold. Who year after year performs rituals to keep our enchantments impenetrable. Though recently you’ve been visiting less.” The King peers down upon you, practically looming over the crown of your head, and your throat begins to ache. “Why?”

It’s the first time hostility has bled so blatantly into his voice, and shivers dart up your spine, hands beginning to shift in preparation to push him away. 

You fight to keep your expression forcefully neutral. “I have no clue what you’re talking about.” 

“You deny you’re the being who visits for seven nights every year?” He drawls, then offers a derisive scoff. “Don’t lie to me.” 

“What is this ritual to you anyway?” You divert, pushing strength into your gaze as your fingers collect in the crook his elbow, thumb parting ways from the rest of your fingers in order to be able to firmly shove him away if needed. “You seem awfully fixated on it.” 

“It nourishes the Great Oak; aids with the enchantments and keeps out fortress impregnable.” His hold strengthens, and your spine steels. “I want to know why. If that magic is dwindling I need to keep as much of its power now before it is gone forever.” 

“I perform no rituals,” you snap at him. “They’re merely habits. There’s no magic involved.” 

“But it is you, isn’t it?” 

You blink, and a hint of a smile crooks his narrow lips. “It was foolish to lie to me. You’re the only one who visits.” 

Your lip curls. “Then why bother asking in the first place?” His head tilts, but he holds your gaze, amber blazing fierce in the dark. “To get a feel for the kind of creature you are.” 

“And what kind of creature do you think I am?” 

The King huffs a soft laugh though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “It doesn’t really matter what kind of creature you are. I will take your magic one way or the other. It’s simply a matter of gauging what method would best suit you.” 

“I have no magic for you to steal,” you hiss, pushing back against him, but he’s deceptively powerful. His hands must be forged from iron. 

“We’ll see,” he murmurs, then bright, iridescent wings have unfolded from his back, and you’re stunned into silence as he hoists you into his arms and those long, narrow dragonfly wings shoot you up into the air, soaring into the Great Oak’s hollow, swallowed whole. 

Your arms fly over his shoulders, clinging so as not to plummet far to the ground—everything is so much larger now, and once you’re in the air, you can make out your pooled robe on the floor, the pale linen now empty and drained of warmth. 

When the King lowers to land, you’re startled as flame wraps itself around your body, though there’s no burn. Just a mellow heat. 

Soldiers line the inner hollow of the Oak, and you wonder if this is the only entrance and exit there is. Wonder how strictly it’s monitored. 

“What are you doing?” You manage to grit out, legs crossing to conceal yourself as he carries you through the hollow into a far off archway that couldn’t have been any larger than your wrist had once been. Now you’re likely barely the height of your former pinky finger. 

“I’m taking you to my chambers,��� comes his clipped answer. 

As he’s carrying you, you catch a glimpse of an image carved into the ceiling of the hollow. A figure dressed in white, crowned in white, holding a golden goblet in her hands, stood before the Great Oak. 

You frown. 

The double doors give way, magic crackling in the air before they are once again resealed, not even a crack to peek out of. 

“You don’t even know how my so-called magic works. What on earth could you possibly hope to achieve?” You snap, nails digging into the muscle of his shoulders. 

“I will secure power to rule my territory no matter what,” he replies, aggression seemingly faded now you’re so deep in his lands. “Do not think you will be a noteworthy obstacle in my endeavours.” 

He puts you down beside a long, stretching banquet table, but it’s plain. Not even a dish in sight. 

You turn, glancing back towards the door. “What right do you-”

His fingers glide up your throat, clasping your chin to direct your gaze to his. “Don’t look away from me.” 

Something shivers up your spine, though it’s hard to figure it out. 

“Is this how you plan to take my magic from me,” you force out, “by beating me in a staring contest?” 

“You seem pretty confident I will be unable to take it,” the King muses, still angling your jaw. “What makes you so convinced?” 

Again, the way of speaking—perfectly understandable, but so strangely shaped. As if his voice is coming from multiple angles. 

It’s your turn to hold something over him, and a devious smile curls your lip, vicious triumph surely shining in your eyes. “The ritual you’re speaking of—there’s no magic to it. It’s little more that tipping bloodied water upon the roots of your Great Oak.” The King stiffens, his touch freezing, and your smile sharpens. “So if you have some magical way to start my cycle once more, then feel free to attempt to extract its nourishment.” 

“Your cycle?” The King repeats. 

You nod, holding firm. 

“Your blood?” He asks again. 

You blink, awful tension beginning to creep into your bones.

What if he tries to cut you up? What if he tries to take the blood of your veins instead? What if- 

His grip loosens, and you shive him away, running for the doors. 

To your surprise, they give way with no effort, but before you can so much as cross the threshold, a swarm of roots gather, thoroughly blocking your path.

“What!” You exclaim beneath your breath. You try digging your fingers in, but it’s useless. She won’t budge. 

“Please,” you whisper. “You’re her, aren’t you? You’re the tree who harboured me in her roots all those years ago.” Your hands flatten over the roots, strength sapped from your fingers. “Please, let me go.” 

You turn on your feet, staring him down from across the room. “Take down these roots.” You demand. “Take them down right now, or I’ll-”

But the King’s brow is furrowed, a look of confusion on his face. “I did not command those roots to block your passage,” he speaks, eyes dropping to the side to glare at the doors. “Neither did I command the doors to part for you.” 

Before you have chance to think for yourself, the King is pinning you with an accusatory look. “You were speaking, just now. Talking to someone.” He takes a step forward, and you bristle, feeling the roots begin to move at your back, their furred ends feathering across your back. “Were you… You were speaking to my House.” 

“I was speaking to the Tree,” you hiss, bristling further as he takes another step towards you. “I trust her. I know her.” 

“My House is not a she,” the King sneers, but as soon as the words leave his mouth a root shoots down from the ceiling, thwacking the crown from his head, both of you staring as it rolls away, turns in a few circles, then promptly falls to the floor. 

The disruption renews your faith. She’s on your side. Though you can’t discern her motives for constraining you like this. Why confine you to a room with him? 

The King turns blazing eyes to you, though they’re no longer accusatory. “We had thought you divine, but you must be a witch,” he speaks in a low, ragged voice. 

“I am no witch,” you return. “I am an elf.” 

“Is that what you call yourself?” The King retorts, cocking a brow, folding powerful arms across his broad chest. 

You’re about to answer, when you his words repeat in your head. “Divine?” 

The image carved into the hollow’s ceiling rushes back to you, suddenly deciphered. And somehow, after such a bizarre night, you have now found yourself at the centre of a religion. A religion of a people you hadn’t even known existed until now. 

You quirk a brow, folding your arms across your chest as you incline you chin, resting your weight to one hip. “If I’m supposedly divine, you should be worshipping me, not stealing from me.” Your upper lip curls. “So you’re a liar and a hypocrite.” 

The King pauses again, watching you as though you’ve grown a second head. You would think he might be floored by your argument, only he doesn’t seem the type to waver so easily. He seems stubborn, and endlessly set in his ways. But then he takes a step forward, and another, and another, until they’ve become paces. And he’s pacing towards you. 

You step back into the roots, but they curl at your back, resisting. Until one prods at your spine. 

It’s gentle, and another strokes across your shoulder, as if coaxing you into a state of calm. 

The King comes to a stop a short distance away, seemingly studying the root’s favouritism. 

“This is my House,” he mutters. “I should be the one to rule over you.” 

Your gaze whips to his. “She’s probably lived longer than you can even comprehend. You have no right to rule over her.” 

“And yet she favours you.” 

You frown. “I would hardly call trapping me in here with you, her favouring me.” Even if the suggestion has warmth blossoming in your chest. 

The root pushes a little harder at your lower back, nudging you a step forward—one step less between you and him. 

The King’s eyes narrow, and you could swear you can almost see the schemes flitting and forming in his mind. “You…love…my House,” he says slowly.

“I love the Oak,” you retort, still wary of the male though he doesn’t seem like he’s going to attempt to dismember you. His brow furrows in disagreement, but moves on, “you trust the Oak.” 

“I do,” you confirm, observing him with heavy skepticism. 

“And…she,” the word seems to come out with some difficulty, “seems to be encouraging you to me.” 

A retort is on your tongue, but the root pushes you forward again, this time with enough strength to have you almost stepping into him. Instead his hands settle on your upper arms, rough, but his hold isn’t strong. Not as it was before. 

“If your Great Oak wishes it,” the King murmurs, peering down at you with that intensity of his, “who are you to deny her, even if you are divine?” 

For some reason, his words send a flock of wings fluttering away in your abdomen. “You have no way of proving your own wishes align with hers,” you manage to argue back. 

Once again roots curl at your back, but this time they’re more firm in their proximity, slinking beneath the fiery cover and wrapping around your waist, gliding over your hips. A shiver runs down your spine, but you startle as one navigates your rib cage, sliding higher to cup your right breast. A wild heat flushes your cheeks, one that has nothing to do with the flames still concealing your body. 

The King’s throat rolls, and his hands trail lower, thumbs settling in the soft dips of your inner elbow. “I believe that’s confirmation,” he murmurs. 

He steps forward, angling you so you’re pushed back against the empty banquet table. 

“My wish is to rejuvenate the power that is beginning to wane in my stronghold,” the King tells you, “and it seems my House��your Oak—knows of a way to do so.” One hand drops a little lower, settling on your hip, though the roots have now given way, sinking back into the walls of the wooden chamber. 

Your legs weaken, and you end up leaning your weight onto the banquet table, losing a few inches in height but the King steps forward again, pressing himself carefully into your body. Monitoring your expression. “Earlier you called me a liar and a hypocrite,” he murmurs, and you realise the flames concealing your body are beginning to subside. “Now you might be right to call me a liar, but you also told me I should be worshipping you rather than stealing from you.” 

“I did,” you breathe. 

“And wouldn’t it make you the hypocrite, if you were to go back on what you said?” 

You pulse spikes. “I don’t think I follow.” 

One of his hands shifts, and the flames part to allow the pads of his fingers to settle atop your sternum, slowly trailing down between your breasts, over the curve of your stomach, until they’re light as a feather atop your abdomen. 

“You claimed it was your cycle that gave nourishment to my fortress,” the King murmurs, and you doubt you could look away from him even if you wanted to. “That it was your blood my House desires. Or so you thought.” 

You’re silent, overwhelmed by such a slight touch, the barest graze of his fingers atop your abdomen. 

“If the power came from your cycle,” he says, free hand dipping between your legs to guide them further open, and you find yourself more than willing to rest a little more of your weight on the banquet table to make room for him as he lowers himself to the chestnut coloured floor. “Then it is clear what part of you I should worship.” 

The breath filters from your lungs as warm flame parts between your legs, only to be replaced by a hotter, wetter warmth. 

Your arms turn weak as his tongue glides up your centre, arousal pooling between your thighs, heat coming to a gentle simmer as your legs are guided further apart. His tongue presses to the apex of your thighs, and presses against your entrance, and- 

You inhale sharply as you peer down at yourself—at the male between your thighs, the three tongues warping in his mouth. Feral heat flushes your body, buzzing beneath your skin as those amber eyes fixate on you, upper tongue swirling around your clit while the other two stroke and lick up your centre, beginning to prod at your entrance. You bring a hand to your mouth in attempts to conceal how flustered he’s made you. 

A root winds down from the ceiling, coiling over your shoulder as it applies a light pressure, encouraging you to recline onto the empty banquet table. 

“Lie down,” the King goads, that strange, warping voice of his all of a sudden making sense, fitting for the three tongues hidden in his mouth. 

You swallow, “But- the table.” 

His eyes flash. “You belong to my table.” His hands guide your legs from the ground, forcing you to lean the rest of your weight on the wooden surface. “You belong amongst my banquet.”

Your back settles atop the wood, and you pull a deep inhale into your lungs as his fingers slip between your thighs, bathing themselves in the hot slick that has gathered there, before slowly working their way inside—to make the entrance for his tongues easier, no doubt. 

The thought shouldn’t be as arousing as you find it, but tingling pleasure is gathering in your lower stomach regardless. 

Those two, dexterous fingers push inside, inclining ever so gently upward, rubbing against a sweet, spongey spot that has your legs shaking, as if he’s beckoning you towards that ledge. One you’re swiftly approaching. 

His digits retract, and a moan slips from your lips as those two tongues push inside—so hot, and wet, and malleable. The King’s upper tongue circles your clit, timed with the rhythmic pulsing inside of you, and there’s no space left between you and that ledge. 

Pleasure brims within your body, magic crackling just beneath your skin as that tingling weightlessness overtakes you. Your eyes slide shut, spine arching as your feet push at the tops of his shoulders, knees hinging further apart to offer him more space, as the pleasure rushes through your bloodstream and this time you can actually see it. The sparks of colour glittering in the air as power filters from your skin, absorbed in the House, the Great Oak. The one who had so patiently guided you closer and closer, until you were firmly within her grasp, at last absorbing what she needs from you. 

And she will take everything she can, though it seems neither you, nor the King kneeling between your legs minds much.

Despite such an abrupt meeting, the two of you seem inseparable. 

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @slut4acotar @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644 @lilah-asteria @nighttimemoonlover @mrsjna @acoazlove

[thehouseofvanserra]

Now what do we have here? Do not look shocked, I did warn you not to wander. It is too late to turn back now. Look close at the walls. The rot peeks through here. The air is filled with the smell of decay. Did you forget this is the court of the dying, of the dead? There is no escape this deep underground and in the heart of The Forest House, no one can hear you scream. This is @thehouseofvanserra after all. What did you expect?

Pick your poison. You won’t be getting out any time soon.

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Gen Tagging: @ninthcircleofprythian @hieragalbatorixdottir @daycourtofficial @thisblogisaboutabook @mybestfriendmademe @secret-third-thing @acourtofladydeath @ysmtttty

Masterlist Here

[thehouseofvanserra]

Tea?

@thehouseofvanserra

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x OC! Alessia Mors

Summary: Alessia Mors has a discussion with Beron. Something unexpected happens.

Word count: 2.3k

Warnings: death of a character, mention of infertility, Beron making a servant poison testing, mention of someone throwing a cup at someone else's face in a fight.

A/N: I'm so SO happy to be partaking in this event! While reading this story, you might be confused. It's okay, it's normal, that's the goal. Eris is confused, and so are yall! But don't worry, I'll link an explanation post at the end of this fic. Enjoy ;)

Also! This fic is part of this series universe, if you're interested in reading more about Eris and Alessia Mors' relationship.

Dividers made by @tsunami-of-tears

Today’s a beautiful day in the Autumn Court. The sun is high up in the sky, shinning brightly with no clouds up there to hide it’s beauty. Alessia Mor can’t possibly be be happier than she is now, basking in the pleasant heat, enjoying it while it last. Gloomy and cold weathers are far more frequent than warm and bright ones in this Court of mud and dead leaves. 

She bunches up her dress to kneel on the humid soil, the gardeners just watered the plants, as expected of them. Excitement bubbles in her stomach as she takes in the sight of the beautiful plant standing before her. The earth has been very generous this year, all the plants in the garden looked healthy. The leaves big and green and the flowers in full bloom. 

There’s one kind of flower in this garden Alessia particularly likes: foxgloves. She had requested those to be added to the garden just bellow her and Eris’ bedroom window the day after their wedding night. The gardeners hadn’t complained, all of the Forest House laborers were, rightfully, terrified of even just crossing her eyes back then. When Eris first brought her here, people had heard the rumors of this terrorizing and mysterious female with powers she could not control from the Court of Nightmares that was travelling by horse with the heir of Autumn. 

Now, some of these people have learned to appreciate Alessia, to be less scared of her imposing presence. Some of them Alessia trusts enough to lower her shield and let them see past her barriers. They greet her when she walks by, now. She can even have a normal discussion without anyone shaking in their boots with most people working in this house. 

Without them, and the generosity of the Mother for giving them such fertile grounds, she doesn’t think she would’ve been able to make these flowers bloom. The myriads of tiny pink flowers on each plant is astonishing. Never in her life she would’ve thought possible for her to actually grow a flower without making it die. 

She smiles, looking proudly at her work as she slips her gloves on. She starts to pick up the flowers delicately, being careful as to not damage the stems so the plant stays healthy. These flowers really do look pretty, they resemble of little bells, or hats. There’s a tale from the Autumn Court locals that tells it’s little creature called fairies that gifted foxes these flowers, so they would ring the bells to warn each other of approaching hunters. 

Alessia’s ears twitch at the sound of footsteps approaching. She puts her basket down and stands up to greet her interruption. 

“Good afternoon, Lissy.” 

Her nose scrunches in disgust at the nickname. 

“Stop calling me that.”

“Why?” Eris says, resting his weight on one leg as he rests a hand on his waist. “The color on your cheeks matches the one of your flowers when I call you that. I think it’s adorable.” 

Alessia rolls her eyes. She could tell Eris that the pink on her cheeks was not from the use of the nickname, but from the way his hunting boots molds his delicious looking calves… but she won’t grant him that pleasure.

“Well I don’t like this nickname.”

“Liar,” Eris purrs, his voice making butterflies flutter in the pit of her stomach.

Liar, liar, liar…

Eris takes a few step closer, the smoke hounds chasing after your powers around the two of you. He pulls the glove off your right hand and pockets it. His fingers gently brings the back of your hand to his lips, and he kisses each of the freckles sprawled onto your fingers. 

This is the kind of action that makes Alessia question how casual their marriage of convenience really is. Sometimes, they would fight and throw insults (or teacups) at each other faces like sworn enemies, or even ignore each other for days, but sometimes, Eris would come up to her and kiss her hand in the most gentle way possible, or brush their fingers together under the dinner table, away from his family’s sight… like a real and loving husband would. 

“Hey!” Alessia snaps, frowning at the hound that got a little bit too close from her garden to her liking. “Get your dogs away from my garden, they’ll ruin it.” 

“I think the chances of you ruining it are higher than them,” Eris winks, but whistles his hounds back to his feets despite the teasing. “What are these for?” He asks, his chin pointing in the direction of the wicker basket on the ground. 

“Tea. I thought your father would like these, they’re local flowers, I’ve heard.”

“Mh, sounds like a delightful activity, my dear,” He chuckles, taking her glove out of his pocket to slide it back onto her hand. “Well, I won’t hold you back much longer, then. I had planned to come an bug you a little between my meeting with our emissary and hunting with my brothers. But now that it’s done…”

“Yeah, yeah, go. You Vanserras get cranky when someone makes you wait.” Alessia urges him with a poke on his chest, her cheek flushing once more at how sturdy it felt beneath her finger, his body not moving from an inch. 

The smile and slight bow Eris makes before turning his back to her and walking away nearly makes her knees buckling. She clenches her fists at her side as she takes deep breaths in, regaining her composure to avoid a burst of magic, just like Eris taught her. 

She shakes her head, now was not the time to get distracted. She have to get ready and brew the tea before Beron joins her in the tea room. 

Alessia quickly makes her way into the Forest house, the doors opening for her as she walks in. Eris keeps saying it’s just a coincidence, that maybe it’s her powers that pushes the door open, but she doesn’t believe that. She wants to believe that this is not just a coincidence. Sometimes, it feels like this house has a soul, she hears it whispering secrets in her dreams at night… It feels alive. 

She smirks to herself, maybe she’s just crazy, but she likes to believe she’s not, and that she’s right and this house really has a soul. 

She walks through the tall oak doors, and heads straight to her bedroom with one goal in mind: getting ready (both physically and mentally) for tea with her oh-so-pleasant father-in-law. 

—

“You had some matters to discuss?” Beron says as a form of greeting, sighing deeply as he plops down ungraciously on a deep maroon chaise. 

Alessia, settled in her own seat with her hands neatly folded on her thighs, bows her head respectfully despite the male’s ungraceful demeanour. “Good afternoon, my Lord,” She bends forward, her smile too tight as she reaches for the teapot on the coffee table separating her and Beron. “Yes I… It’s about Eris and I, actually.” 

At the mention of his eldest son, the High Lord lifts a brow, his posture straightening as his eyes scans his son’s wife. “And what, pray tell, is the matter between the two of you again?” 

Alessia bites her lower lip, a habit she is known for having when stress consumes her. The room is coated with a small cloud of smoke, her powers humming around them as her unease creeps up within her. Her hands tremble softly as she starts pouring tea in both hers and Beron’s teacup. 

Sensing her struggle, Oliver -Beron’s personal guard and Alessia’s favorite servant- places a hand above hers. “Do you require my help, milady?” 

Alessia shakes her head, refusing his help. She can do it herself. She takes a deep breath to steady her fingers, then keeps pouring the warm liquid into the mugs until they’re full. 

Beron takes his mug, Alessia following him. They both sit still, cups of tea in hands as the room around them basks in a tensed quietness. 

“You’re not one to beat around the bush, Miss Mors,” Beron lifts his chin, his eyes looking all around him, wary. “Why don’t you drink that tea of yours?” He asks, his voice low, challenging. “Smells delicious.”

“It’s hard to swallow anything when I’m trying to find the words to announce this terrible news…” She clears her throat, trying to hide the sway in her voice. 

Beron gestures for Oliver to come over and lifts his tea for him to take. “Sip,” He orders, his eyes watching Alessia’s reactions closely.

Oliver obeys, like the good servant he is. 

Alessia’s eyes widen as she looks up at Beron. “You thought I would’ve tried to poison you?” She snaps, outraged. 

Beron shrugs, taking his cup back from Oliver. He downs his cup, then places it in front of her to refill it, seemingly unable to just do it himself. 

Alessia pours him another cup, and they drink in silence as time passes. 

“So,” Alessia starts, noticing the exhaustion of the day starting to wear on the High Lord before her. “About me and Eris… I went to the healers.” 

Beron’s face suddenly turns pale, his brows covered in sweat as he waits for her to continue. 

“I won’t be able to conceive an heir.” 

At that, a choked sound escapes Beron. His mug drops to the floor, the porcelain exploding at the contact. His hand shots up to his heart, and before anyone can react, his body dives to the ground. His body cracks when it meets with the carpet, and immediately Oliver springs into action. 

He kneels to the ground beside his High Lord, his fingers tracing his neck in search of a pulse. He pulls back, his face severe. 

He looks at the other guards in the room, his face severe. “We need the healers. Take Miss Mors out of the room and keep an eye on her until Lord Eris comes back.” 

–

To say that Eris is frustrated when he storms into the Forest House, not even taking the time to take of his muddied boots, is an understatement. He’s looking like a wild and feral creature. His curls messy at the top of his head from the wind when he galloped back to the house at full speed when the messenger told him something had happened to his father and his wife. 

He halts when he spots Alessia, back pressed against the wall as healers work some tests around her. 

“What happened.” He snaps. When Alessia opens her mouth to speak, he shushes her up with a gesture of his hand. “No. I don’t want to hear it from you,” He snaps, his eyes squeezed in frustration. “What.the fuck. happened.” He nearly growls at Oliver. 

The poor male twitches on his spot, clearly uncomfortable to stand between you and Eris. His hands are clutching onto his stomach as if trying to keep its content from spilling on his boots. The healers move away from Alessia, staying close to the tea room closed doors, but far enough to give Alessia, Oliver and Eris some privacy. 

“They were having tea,” Oliver voice shakes, seemingly worried that Eris would start showing teeth and coming at his neck. He gulps. 

“Beron died.” Alessia completes for him. 

“What?!”

“I-It hasn’t been confirmed yet!” Oliver starts to shake, taking a step back as Alessia hides her amusement behind her fist covering her mouth. 

“Well, he crashed on the floor, then.” She shrugs, making Eris face fuming. 

Eris looks between the two of them, then he locks eyes with Alessia. 

Her husband’s pupils are wide, the russet of his eyes nearly all swallowed up by the blackness. 

“I… he learned some… shocking news,” Olivers swallows, hard. Feeling the need to keep talking in a poor attempt to ease the awkward silence, he adds, “I think … his heart was old, and Faes are not immune to-” 

“I don’t recall asking you for your Gods damned opinion.” Eris snaps at Oliver. He tugs on Alessia’s arm, and bringing his mouth to her ear, his lips brushing against the shell of her delicate ear, he murmurs, “We’ll talk about it later. And I’m expecting you to stop lying or whatever it is you’re doing, Alessia Mors.” 

Her back straightens, but only just slightly. She turns her head to face Eris, their face mere inches from one another. She can feel the heat of his body seeping through the many layers of her dress. Her gaze drops down to his jaw, a muscle twitching there, then her eyes drift to his lips. His tongue pokes through his lips, wetting them…

The door of the tea room finally open, the sudden movement breaking whatever spell Eris and Alessia were under, putting distance between them. 

In the corner of her eyes, she sees Eris toying with his golden cuff links, the same ones she saw him wore on their wedding day, she notices. Eris always toy with his cuff links when he’s anxious, or especially annoyed. 

“Beron Vanserra is dead.” The healer announces, the revelation making all of this even more real. 

Good, Alessia thinks. It’s what she wanted, what a lot of people wanted, what Eris wished for, worked for… 

She looks back at Eris, who seems to be determined to not give her an ounce of his attention. He simply nods, telling the healer to deal with the body, and to leave the rest for him to handle. 

Before he leaves the corridor, Alessia watches as he stares at her over his shoulder. 

Later, his russet eyes seem to tell her. We’ll talk about this later.

Alessia nods, and simply stares as Eris walks away, leaving her on her own in this house where the walls call to her, and murmur dark, dark secrets in her dreams. 

A Court of Sins and Nightmares taglist: @sarawritestories @milswrites @mybestfriendmademe @lilah-asteria @rcarbo1

EXPLANATIONS! DO NOT PANIC!

ACOTAR general taglist: @mybestfriendmademe @lilah-asteria @acotar-lover @paige0103 @princesssunderworld

[thehouseofvanserra]

From Me, All Things Are Made

Missed this universe? Here's a lore dump for you written as part of @thehouseofvanserra collaboration!

The Forest House muses on what it takes to become a Vanserra, what it's seen and what it expects to see.

This is part 5 of the To Become A Vanserra series, which should be read in order. There are spoilers for the preceding parts, and hints on future installments in this piece. Read the first stanzas below and finish the poem on AO3.

So you want to become a Vanserra?  You must know their home, for they are born of my roots. I am the Forest House. From me, the tea is brewed.  The sweet apple meat, minced and dried.  The bitter leaves, desiccated and collected.  Once combined and steeped with time, two become one.  Kissing the porcelain, then their lips,  My poison paints the first strokes needed To Become a Vanserra. His new petal was so sweet when she drank my elixir. Did he think of his first as he touched her lips? Such an innocent flower,  Innocent no more. 

Finish reading the poem on AO3.

Thank you to my TBAV support group for all your help on this: @secret-third-thing @nocasdatsgay @climbthemountain2020!

Let me know if you want on or off the taglist! @pippsmcgee @born-to-riot @chunkypossum @bubybubsters @queercontrarian @yanny-77 @fieldofdaisiies @iftheshoef1tz @secret-third-thing @jules-writes-stories @the-darkestminds @climbthemountain2020 @amalhe-kofee @molcat07

[thehouseofvanserra]

Band of Brothers

“You have two left feet,” Eris growled as Lucien stepped on his toes again. “Focus.”

Watching Eris teach his brothers dance is one of my fondest memories. I gave them a room, one enchanted to give them whatever they needed. They had made a goal: become so close that not even Beron could tear them apart. To work toward this, the brothers decided each week they would learn the hobby of another once Beron drank himself to sleep.

Eris paired Lucien with Mars, adjusting their hands so Mars was leading. “Three counts,” his tone was softer as the music picked up again. “Remember three counts. One, two, three, one, two, three.”

The week of Eris's hobby turned into months of dancing. The brothers all took the time to perfect the ability. They used it to woo females, to impress their father, as a stress relief in secret with their mates.

Eris still uses that room now, his partner's head on his shoulder as they sway, that same “One, two, three..” playing in his mind and his brothers laughter, a ghost of a memory he could no longer touch.

[thehouseofvanserra]

Another Way Out

Summary - After rumors start going around Autumn regarding you a certain High Lord, your mother has to ensure you escaped before it was too late

Warnings - Mentions of abuse, purity culture, misogynistic views, canon Beron behavior

A/N - I have been playing with this for a long time. This is actually the idea that sparked me asking my friends their feelings on the Forest House. I'm so happy to have the chance to have collaborated on @thehouseofvanserra with so many people. Thank you all for letting me go crazy with this idea.

Running away from home was the thing you had ever imagined you would be doing. Yet, it was where you found yourself right now as another twig cut the tender skin of your cheek. You had no doubt your dress was torn, your feet aching and potentially bleeding. 

This was the only time the house agreed with your mother to allow you to leave, so in the dead of night, you ran toward Spring.

Midnight summons to tea with your mother had never meant good news. The first time had been when Lucien and Jesminda were discovered. The second the night you found out that two of your brothers had died chasing Lucien to the very court you found yourself looking for. 

Mother had been sitting in her tea room lit only by the light of the moon and candles. There was no tea. No snacks. Only a small bag and her and Eris speaking in hushed tones.

Eris had looked truly panicked the second he glanced to look you over. Your brother was a mask, cool and collected. To see him so shaken was not good.  “Is.. someone hurt,” you had not meant to sound so insecure, but the tension of the room had you on edge.

Your mother didn't answer you. She simply stood, taking the bag in her hands, “Beron knows about Tamlin,” Eris spoke for her. “He knows you two.. enjoyed each other company.”

You froze, “It was a walk in his garden-”

“With no chaperone,” your mother interrupted. “And rumors of inappropriate things have spread like wildfire.” 

“Your purity has come into question. Father feels you have embarrassed him,” Eris's voice was tight. “He plans to make a public example of you.”

You were pulled from the memory as you slipped on a rock, tumbling down. You squeezed your eyes shut, heart racing as you began to hear them. Hounds. Beron was forcing Eris to chase you. To hunt you down with the very hounds you had loved. It was part of the plan. You had been given a 30-minute head start, the trees no doubt telling your father you had somehow escaped and were running. Squeezing dirt between your nails, you stood, heart pounding as you slipped back into the memory and continued to run. 

“You will leave the Forest House tonight,” your mother whispered, handing you the bag. “Tamlin knows you are coming. The second you are over the Spring border, ask your mate for sanctuary.”

Shaking hands felt like they weren't your own as you grabbed the leather pack and slipped it on. “The exits are too guarded. There's no way out of here?”

Eris shook his head, “No way out that you know of, little sister.”

Your mother took in a deep breath before taking your hands in her own. “When I was seeing Helion, the House gave me a way out that only Eris and I know of. It has agreed to open that doorway for you until midnight.” Your eyes shot to the sundial. The shadows pointed to 11:55. You swallowed hard. There would be no lingering goodbyes. No last-minute hugs or questioning it. 

Eris touched the wall, nodding at you. The scent of campfire, the Forest House’s magic, came into the air. Brick and stone shifted, dark oak taking its place. It was heavy, old. Eris pushed it open as your mother moved, her forehead against yours, “I love you. I love you so much that I have to let you go. I.. I can not let you end up like me,” her voice broke. “You have to go.” You stood there as she let go of you, a lump forming in your throat.

“Go,” the urgency in Eris's voice made you move. “Follow the fire sprite. Do not look back. Do not go off the path it leads you down.”

Rough hands grabbed the back of your neck and pulled you to him so he could place a soft kiss on your forehead. “I will bring you home,” his voice broke. “I will do everything to bring you home.”

The change in the air brought you back to the pathway. The fire sprite had long abandoned you once she realized the hounds were coming. You were so close to Spring. The sounds of twigs snapping, your heavy breathing, and barking the only thing you could hear. 

Fear was driving you. Your mother would carry evidence of Beron's abuse long after he was gone. Her back was marred and distorted from whips dipped in fire. Eris bared scars, knives, and daggers carving out pieces of his skin. A brand resting far too close to intimate places. 

Beron was a monster, and if he caught you now? If he caught you now, you would be sold to someone he trusted to beat you. And that's if he didn't make the choice to execute you. Rumors had made your father believe you were impure. That you had ruined yourself under Tamlin's hand. You no longer held value, even if it was untrue. You were of no use to Beron in his mind. 

The trees began to change, the burnt orange, golden yellows, and deep reds replaced by budding flowers in whites, purples, and pinks. “Tamlin,” you yelled for him, knowing you had entered Spring. 

The barking grew closer, the hounds no doubt on your heels as you continued to run. Spring had no wards. It was open territory meant for refugees. Something of which you had never imagined yourself, a princess, becoming.

A raised root tripped you, body falling to the mud just as the first hound came into view. Its sleek black body went low, hunting you. That's when full horror set in.

These were not Eris's hounds. 

They were your father's. 

Beron had hunted you himself and if Reaper's body language was any indication, you would never even make it to a public execution if he caught you. 

You didn't get up as you backed away. You refused to look away from the hounds, refused to risk turning your back on him. “Tamlin,” you yelled out of fear, hoping he was close enough to hear you, to feel your terror as you tugged on the bond. 

Reaper was low to the ground, stalking and getting closer but not pounding. His teeth were bared, capable of ripping your throat out if ordered to. Hand found your shoulders, your scream filling the air. 

Tamlin lifted you up, forcing you behind him and backing you to a tree as Beron came into view, two more hunting smoke hounds at his side. “Call them off,” Tamlin's growl as you dug your face into his tunic was met with another deep growl from a hound. “Call. Them. Off. You are not allowed to hunt in my court.”

“I am allowed to claim what is mine,” your father's voice was matter of fact, almost amused. “Hand me my dear daughter and we will be gone.”

“Over my dead body,” Tamlin spat. 

Beron only chuckled, “That can be arranged.”

“Father, perhaps it would be best if we left,” Eris's smooth voice filled the growing silence and pressure. “If he has truly soiled her, he may feel he has claim to her.”

“Sanctuary,” you breathed into Tamlin's back. “High Lord, I ask for sanctuary.”

Beron snarled at that, Tamlin's green eyes locked on his, “Granted,” your mate answered.

The scent of rain and roses was a hug, the sudden zip of ripping through the folds of the world disorientated you as cool marble took the place of dirt below your feet. Tamlin's shoulders relaxed, falling as he let out a deep breath. “The Forest House let you out?”

You paused, glaring up at him, “How did you know?”

“Lucien,” he pulled you to the dining room and sat you down before grabbing a bowl of warm water and a rag. He kneeled down to take one of your feet in his hand. “This is going to sting,” he sunk it into the water, watching as your body winced.

“Lucien has his own way in and out as well,” Tamlin continued. “As does Eris. They had thought maybe you just didn't know how to ask the House, but perhaps that wasn't the issue. Perhaps Beron never told you it was alive for a reason.” 

Your mate began to tenderly wash your scraped and muddy feet. “Alive?” He nodded at your question. 

“Most courts have one house that is sentient,” his voice was even. “Autumn's is the Forest House. Summer the Shore House. Winter the Mountain House.” You hummed as he spoke and began to massage a healing ointment onto the damaged skin. “Beron must have decided you knowing was too dangerous.”

Silence passed as he took care of you. Once he was satisfied, he took you to the bath. He left you alone with your thoughts. Your knees curling up to your chest. 

The Forest House being sentient should not have shocked you as much as it did. And dangerously, it gave you hope. Hope that maybe one day you'd find a secret way in, and once you find that way in, Beron would pay. 

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[thehouseofvanserra]

Those Who Favor Fire

for @thehouseofvanserra

[thehouseofvanserra]

Stay Tuned...

It's time to revisit the lore of how you can become a Vanserra from the Forest House itself...

Be sure to catch up on the full series before the poem drops tomorrow as part of @thehouseofvanserra collaboration. This piece will contain spoilers of what has happened, and what may be yet to come.

[thehouseofvanserra]

The Vanserra Brothers always needed a place. I am happy to have given them one.

The Door

A Vanserra Brothers Story

Notes: it’s @thehouseofvanserra week! A huge thank you to @readychilledwine for putting this together. I can’t wait to see what everyone else comes up with🧡🧡

Warnings: none

Leaving the throne room after their father was angry always made the Vanserra boys’ skin crawl.

Eris was always blamed for not keeping his brothers in line. The twins, Ceres and Oak, for never being in sync. And little Lucien for never having a heart of stone.

Beron has inventive ways to throw those insults at his sons. None of the seven siblings ever understood why their father was so harsh. They never asked each other that question since it seemed the Forest House was always listening.

Today these four couldn’t contain their annoyance. Once the boys were far from the throne room Ceres threw the first verbal punch, criticizing Lucien.

“He hears it every day from father. Enough.” Eris snaps. Lucien hangs his head, hiding the shameful flush on his cheeks.

As they get further from the throne the bickering picks up. Oak delivers a Beron approved insult, a concerning hush falling over the group of boys. Ceres and Lucien look to Eris. Flames roaring in the eldest Vanserra’s eyes.

Eris grabs Oak by the collar of his tunic, slamming him against the tapestry covered wall. As he berated Oak, the twin was busy feeling what his back came into contac with. It wasn’t stone or marble like the rest the halls.

“Are you listening to me?” Eris seethes. Oak nods. “Yeah yeah, I sound like father… is there something behind this?” Eris shoots him a confused look, pulling Oak away from the tapestry. Gripping the ancient, rough fabric in his fists Eris tugs it away from the wall.

Embedded in the stone is a knarled and misshapen wooden door. Lucien steps closer to inspect it. Running his hand over the surface the door lets out a deep groan causing all four boys to jump back. It’s rusting hinges creak as it swings inward beckoning them.

Lucien makes the first step through the door. “What are you doing?” Eris whispers. His head pivoting from end to end of the hall. “Get back here, Lucien.” Ceres stares after him with wide eyes.

The youngest brother rolls his eyes. “Are you scared Ceres?” Lucien steps off to the left heading deeper into the dark room. The twins look to Eris for direction. He sighs, ditching the tapestry to follow Lucien. Once Ceres and Oak cross the threshold the door creaks shut. Another groan sounds so loudly that it feels like its pressing in on their skulls.

It stops before the boys can register the pain. A light at the end of the hall guides them to Lucien.

The cavernous room is thin with a high curved ceiling. They’re surrounded by…games? A large chess board sits by an empty fireplace at the far end. Against one wall is a table that folds out, a map of Prythian covering the surface.

Making their way through the hideout they uncover more table maps. Shelves stocked with ancient texts, journals written in the old language with Beron’s hand writing.

“What is this place?” Ceres asks, awestruck by their discovery. Eris shakes his head, tracing a finger over the map. “A place to plot.” Eris’s voice shakes.

Oak and Lucien carefully unlatch another table from the wall. Letters and a map of Hybern litter the surface. As Lucien reaches for a sealed envelope Eris grabs his wrist. “Don’t. Or he will know.” Lucien backs away with his hands raised in surrender.

Eris scans over the loose letters. His face drains of color. Promises of power and riches between the two leaders written in ink. Favors promised in the years to come.

“What do we do?” Oak asks. Sounding like that timid little boy he was before Beron shaped him and Ceres into weapons. Eris slams the table back against the wall. Moving swiftly he shoves the other table back into its latch and moving the books back into place.

“Nothing.” the three gape at Eris. “The house has given us something. And we will hold onto this until the time is right.”

Eris jerks his head toward the entrance signaling for his brothers to follow. The hall seems longer than it was just a few minutes ago. It winds and twists. Finally the door comes into view.

Eris hesitantly reaches for the worn golden handle. Afraid the of the wood’s groan. Lucien beats him to it, pushing the door with a flat palm. No groans or creaks come from the door this time.

Stepping out the boys find themselves in their mother’s parlor.

“Boys,” Lady Autumn looks up from her book, a tea cup delicately grasped between her thin fingers. “Come, sit with me for a while.”

Lucien takes the armchair closet to his mother. Her warm smile easing the pain and worry Beron left in him. As the others settle in she pours tea for each of her boys.

“I see the door found you.” she plops two sugar cubes into Oak’s outreached cup. “You know about it?” Lady Autumn nods, a small hum leaving her lips. “Of course. It’s been helping me for years. Giving me escape when I’ve needed peace. Taking me from one side of the house to the other. Even a path to… what did it give you?” her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Something like longing haunting her pale features that are so much like Eris’s.

The brothers look at each other, unsure if they should even speak aloud what they found. Eris swallows hard. “We found some sort of study. It clearly belongs…” Eris trails off gesturing with his hand.

Lady Autumn takes a sip of her tea looking pensive. “And what do you four intend to do with this new found study?” none of the boys respond. Only Lucien looks to their mother. The look on his face begging for guidance.

“If you are unsure, maybe some advice is in order.” setting down her tea cup on the table, Lady Autumn leans back in her chair, folding her hands primly in her lap. “If I were you, I would wait until the time is right to use the new study and everything in it. Remember to be smart, my sons. It has also given you something invaluable, a new bond. You know what the study is. Use it against him.”

Realization dawns across the four boys as their mother’s strategy sinks into their minds.

The colck on the mantle chimes noon. “Goodness look at the time. I have court ladies to host soon, shoo shoo my loves.”

The boys fluster at the sudden dismissal. Leaving their half drunk tea on any flat surface as their mother ushers them out.

Approaching their rooms the four boys share a knowing look before disappearing behind their doors. Lady Autumn was right. The house that has caused them so much pain to grow up in has given them a new bond.

Hope connects them now. Hope that one day their father’s rule will come to an end. And the answers lay just beyond a door at their beck and call.

[thehouseofvanserra]

A house that hears

A house that sees

A house house that aches

and burns

and breathes

A house that mourns the

violent things

Autumn's forests often breed

for @thehouseofvanserra

[thehouseofvanserra]

Isn't there something special about the connection between the oldest and the youngest?

Little Brother Lucien

A little story about Eris meeting Lucien for the first time for the @thehouseofvanserra week since their first time meeting takes place in a special room of the Forest House🧡

It's as if the Forest House holds its very breath, no noise audible, a cool chill lying in the air. The dark floorboards creak softly beneath his feet, as if they too are reluctant to break the silence of the moment. As if the House is waiting just like he is. For the big moment, the big reveal.

And to say Eris is nervous would be an understatement. It feels as if every fibre of his body is tingling as he steps from one foot to the other, fiddling with his fingers and tugging on the skin around his nails. The large oak door in front of him is the only barrier between him and the moment he's been eagerly anticipating for so long—eventually meeting his baby brother. The little boy was only born mere hours ago, and now finally, Eris is allowed to see him. To meet him.

Eris has always been the first brother to meet the new babies in the family. Despite this being his sixth little brother —the midwife who can foretell the gender informed them of it being a boy again— the excitement hasn't faded. In fact, everything feels different this time. During his mother's pregnancy, she had allowed Eris to feel the baby kick every now and then, and from these moments on Eris has felt an immediate connection to the little one. 

Eris is bouncing up and down now. The anticipation is almost unbearable as he waits, his heart pounding in his chest like a wild stallion racing over a meadow. He takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself, but the excitement and nerves are overwhelming. He can't wait to finally lay eyes on his baby brother, to finally meet him and talk to him.

The young Vanserra male is unable to stand still, his gaze jumping around all the time to keep himself busy. He looks at the dark velvet walls, adorned with intricate carvings, and his fingers trace over the golden embellishments showing pictures of battles and brave warriors on horses that glint softly in the dim light. 

These walls hold many secrets, Eris knows this, and the detailed carvings tell tales of old times to those who listen closely. One could get lost in them for hours, studying them and learning about the Autumn Court and its rulers and warriors. 

He squints his eyes as he looks further up on the wall to where there’s a family picture. It only shows Eris’ mother, Beron, Eris and two of his brothers. It’s an older painting, one that has been done centuries ago. But soon there will be a new one. One that also includes the newest member of the Autumn Court.

Inhaling a deep breath, Eris fills his lungs with the cold air and closes his eyes. He pulls back his hand and folds his arm over his chest. He wants it to meet him right now. Right in this very moment. He can’t wait a moment longer.

Right–

The impact of Beron’s power radiating through the entire House suddenly shakes Eris to the core. His breath hitches and his heart stops the instant the massive oak door separating him and his mother and little sibling crashes open, slamming against the wall. 

Beron storms out his mother’s bedroom, fury etched upon his face, a wave of dark power following him. With the lift of his hand, the door slams shut again, rattling the entire Forest House. 

Eris stands frozen, bewildered by the anger radiating from his father, his eyes wide open, hands folded behind his make. He doesn’t understand where his father’s fury comes from—shouldn't Beron be happy with the birth of his child? Another son! The seventh son of Autumn.

For a moment, Eris worries that he might fall victim to his father’s anger as well, that another scar will adorn his back if he does so, but he’s lucky. Without a glance at Eris, Beron rushes past him, his rage making the room feel both burning hot and icy cold at the same time. He leaves, fast and furious, his footstops hollowing loudly through the large expanse of the corridor, echoing off the walls.

Only when Eris is one hundred percent sure that Beron has really left and won’t return, does he set out for the door. Slowly, and with hesitant steps now that nervousness about meeting his youngest brother fills him again.

It takes Eris an eternity to gather the courage to move his hand to the golden door handle. His heart thunders in his chest as he decides to knock first before entering — manners are priority. With a shaky fist, he taps lightly against the door, the sound barely audible. A soft "come in" drifts to him from the other side, and with a deep inhale, Eris slowly lowers the cool handle and steps inside.

Eris doesn’t really remember for how long his parents have not been sleeping in the same room at night, but at some point this room, in the north wing of the Forest House became his mother’s chamber. 

It’s a cosy, beautiful room, with beige walls adorned with delicate golden details—flowers and leaves. The furniture —a wardrobe, a desk and chair and the bed— are made of oak, adding a beautiful touch to the room. An open window allows a gentle breeze to flow in, rustling the soft curtains and filling the room with the  scent of fresh air and sunlight. 

And the very same breeze also softly tousles Eris’ hair as he stands in the doorframe. He hums lowly — it’s a beautiful, sunny day. Perfect for the birth of his baby brother.

His eyes quickly find his mother, who is sitting on the large canopy bed, cradling a tiny bundle to her chest. She flashes him a faint smile, her eyes tired but glowing with happiness.

Both of them are well, everything is fine. A wave of relief washes over Eris as he takes in the scene in front of him. 

He takes a step forward, slowly approaching his mother and the small babe, his entire being filled with nervousness. But with every step closer, his anxiety seems to ease, slowly being replaced by a feeling of warmth in his chest, a sense of love and protectiveness for the tiny bundle lying in his mother’s arms. 

“Meet Lucien Davian … Vanserra, Eris,“ his mother introduces as she turns the little baby to him.

Eris grins as he looks down at the baby. 

Lucien is smaller than his other brothers used to be, a little more fragile which maybe has to do with being born three weeks too early. And his skin, his skin is a little darker than Eris’ and those of his brothers…

"Would you like to hold him?" his mother asks in her gentle, soothing voice, her eyes sparkling with warmth as she smiles at her oldest son.

Eris feels another huge wave of nervousness bubble up inside him—Lucien is so tiny, so fragile. The thought of accidentally hurting him sends a shiver down his spine. But on the other hand, there's also the wish to hold his little brother, to feel his warmth and breathe in his sweet baby scent. With a hesitant nod, he agrees.

Imala shifts slightly on the bed, making space for Eris to sit down and then with utmost care she lifts the baby boy into Eris' waiting arms that tremble ever so slightly.

Eris' heart swells with nothing but love for the little babe, and his grin widens, his eyes shining with bliss. As gently as possible, he lifts his hand to Lucien's head and tenderly strokes his index finger down the baby's tiny nose. Lucien bubbles his lips—the only reaction he shows, but it is enough to bring tears to Eris' eyes. He quickly blinks them away, his heart aching with everything he’s feeling, and lets his fingers softly poke Lucien's chubby cheek.

"Careful," his mother whispers, her voice filled with tenderness. "He's only a few hours old."

Eris flashes her a reassuring smile, his voice thick with emotion. "Always, mother. I promise... to always keep this little one safe."

Then Eris leans closer to Lucien.

"Listen, little brother, I mean it. I will forever protect you, I will forever keep you safe. You never need to fear any kind of danger." With that, Eris kisses the little boy’s head and a small tear falls onto his cheek.

He will question his mother later about his father’s outburst, but for now he allows himself to enjoy the moment. No one will ever take it away from him. No matter what happens, he will always treasure this moment in his heart and keep it safe there until the end of his immortal life. This moment, here with his baby brother in the sanctuary of his mother’s room.

[thehouseofvanserra]

Welcome to the Forest House. @thehouseofvanserra send their warmest regards and thank you for joining them for this small collaboration. Please have a seat and while you wait for the High Lord and Lady to join us. Enjoy a selection of curated music that encompasses the sounds and atmosphere of the Forest House and Autumn Court.

Choose from the playlist options below that best fit your preferences.

Spotify Playlist | Apple Music | YouTube Playlist

Oh, and if you do leave the common room, don’t go far. It’s impolite to snoop.

Masterlist here

[thehouseofvanserra]

Lady Autumn and Sunlight

I had known about Lady Autumn and Helion for many years before I had confirmation. It came during a celebration, a rare gathering much like this. The doors had been opened, and every court welcomed into my walls for drinking, dancing, and socializing. 

Helion snuck away, finding my lady's room. He had hoped for just a moment with her. A second to congratulate her new pregnancy. To ask if the babe was perhaps his. 

But Beron has always been one step ahead. He sat and waited for the Heir of Day to enter, greeting him with a dagger that narrowly missed his heart. But Beron might as well have ripped it beating from Helion. He would never see the Lady that night.

And she would not see Helion again.

Imagine a world without sunlight after being right there, tasting the warmth it brings.

[thehouseofvanserra]

Eris, Lady of Autumn, and Lucien in the Canopy

For @thehouseofvanserra week!! The Canopy is a solarium in the Forest House featured in my fic A Court of Embers and Sunlight🍁☀️ It's an isolated little place at the top of a tower in the High Family wing that Lucien and LoA frequent often to just feel safer. Definitely one of the brightest and warmest places in the Forest House.

The walls and domed roof above were made entirely of stained glass.  Bronzed metal and opaque brown imitated the texture of trees, which rose from the walls and stretched across the domed skylight as glass branches, with leaves of red and gold. The colors reflected on the floor as dappled light.  

I love the Canopy so much, it's one of my favorite visuals in ACOEAS! I couldn't do all of the suncharms that I described because it just got busy but I'm so proud of this!

Made by me with Affinity Designer

[thehouseofvanserra]

Are there prompts for this event? Or how to participate?

Liz here,

The House of Vanserra is a multi-creator collaboration where we have curated creations to celebrate the Forest House. It is not an event week. The best way to participate is to sit back, relax, and enjoy the content!